It Comes and Goes
by tigers24
Summary: I really wish he'd stop talking. He's so much better looking when his mouth is shut. Modern Day A/U
1. Chapter 1

I shake a few bits of sawdust from my hair, attempting to ignore the grumbling coming from my empty stomach. With only three lights left to hang, I'm determined to finish before lunch. I don't care how bad my arms hurt, it's gonna happen. If I have to spend one more minute on this damn lift, I may start threatening to tear out Gale's limbs one by one.

"You sure you don't want to let me do that for a while?" I look down from my third step position, feet secure on the ladder, eyeing Gale crouched down near a small pile of screws and gold metal fixtures. The shine from the metal surface of the lift glares back at me, and I get a glimpse of his concerned smile. The blister on my thumb burns from the repeated peel back wire stripping motion, and my movements have started to become languid. Even the slightest bit of weight feels heavy at this point. Gale of course notices, but I have far too much pride to admit anything. Instead, I just take a moment to wipe my palms against the tool belt hanging from my waist, minding the worn, dusty fabric, thin from years of use.

"Why? You need a break down there, Hawthorne?" I tease. He shoots me a knowing half-smirk before lowering his head to concentrate on the task at hand. The sun shines bright through the stained glass of the tall church windows, and I'm well aware of the forty foot distance from where we are and the ground. You think it would spur on fear or caution, but it does none of that. If there's anything at all I've learned about this job, it's to never look down. And if you have to, don't do it for long.

"Come on Catnip. What're you trying to prove?" Leave it to Gale to make a statement without really having to make it at all.

I shrug nonchalantly, not feeling the need to express why. What's done is done, and I made a promise to myself a long time ago not to think about all the self-righteous pricks who talk down to me. I'm not some helpless broad who can't handle herself like the guys who come through here seem to think. They set out to give me mindless tasks that any idiot can do, and it seriously pisses me off.

Sometimes I feel a burn to prove myself, and I'll work twice as hard as the guys around me. Half the time, I know more than they do, anyway. Mostly though, I just try to keep to myself, and stay as asshole free as possible.

It usually works for me.

"Pfttt. I'm not trying to prove anything. I just don't want to listen to you whine tomorrow about how your arms are tired." Gale's grin widens in response.

We work diligently together for the next hour hanging lights, feigning off sweat and fatigue from the mid-May heat while the sun continuously beats in from the windows. My Carhartt denim jeans stick to the back of my knees without prevail. Even my socks are moist as I trudge along sluggishly in my heavy work boots.

When we finally break and take our lunch at Subway, I practically inhale my turkey sandwich.

"Katniss, you might want to chew," Gale just gapes at me from across the booth, motionless and awed. I give him my best fuck-you-face, not even the slightest bit embarrassed, even if I consciously begin taking smaller bites and significantly slow my pace.

"So... Madge wanted me to remind you about the party tonight. She thinks you're going to flake out." I force myself not to roll my eyes. How is it exactly that I could forget? Madge's fifteen texts in the last two days pretty much ensured that I couldn't possibly if I tried.

"Yeah. I got the memo," I mumble between bites.

"Well...are you?" He asks.

"Am I what?"

"Are you going to flake?"

This time I really do roll my eyes. "Gale, I don't know if you've noticed, but the club isn't really my thing."

"Catnip..." He protests. "You have to go; she'll be devastated if you don't. She considers you one of her best friends —"

I waste no time interjecting. "Don't you dare guilt trip me, Hawthorne. This is your deal. I'm not about to parade around in some dress so you don't have to hear your fiancee complain. This is what you signed up for, my friend. For better or for worse. Godspeed."

He looks at me with pleading eyes, but I'll be damned if I'm giving in. Besides, Gale is my best friend, not Madge. I mean, we were okay friends through high school, but if you put us in a room together by ourselves, the only relevant discussion topics we'd have are Gale and ice cream. And I'm pretty sure she only buys "frozen yogurt" because Heaven forbid she not fit in a size three.

Just the mere thought of a night with Johanna, Delly, Madge, and I barhopping and being hit on by a dozen drunken slobs makes me want to bang my head against a wall. That's not even mentioning the fact that Madge can hold her liquor about as far as I can throw her.

Then we have the dress situation... don't even fucking get me started on the dress situation.

"Seriously, don't do this to me. She'll never let it go, Katniss." His voice is so desperate. I hate it when he begs with those damn puppy dog eyes. It's like perfect manipulation, because I can't say no. And after all these years, he knows my soft spots all too well, which is exactly why I don't bother to look up from my turkey club, too afraid I'll lose my resolve.

A quick kick to my foot strikes me under the table.

"What the hell, Gale!"

"Don't ignore me."

"I didn't ignore you. I already told you, my answer is no."

"Catnip..."

I look up and immediately regret my decision.

"No, dammit."

"Please?'

"Fuck you, Hawthorne."

* * *

Madge is wasted, to say the least.

First reason being: she keeps sloshing her Jack and Coke all over the leather seats in the back of the limo, followed by insistent repetitions of sopping up the mess with the bottom of her sundress. Secondly, she has taken her shoes off and keeps holding them up through the open moonroof, waving them around while yelling: "_I'm drunk, bitches!_"

This is my life. And how the hell I even got here is just...beyond me.

It's kind of funny how time changes things. Madge was extremely different when we were in high school. She was the strong silent type, to the point where you wanted to be friends with her just so you could try and figure her out. But once we graduated and she realized just how powerful being beautiful could be, and a wild sense of confidence formed. She began leaving a trail of brokenhearted men behind her, pathetic tears and all.

It kind of makes me think about the irony in all of this. I was furious when Gale told me three years ago that he had a crush on Madge, for obvious reasons. I was more than positive she was only going to break his heart (because let's be honest, Gale is totally susceptible to getting his heart broken). And yet, it didn't, and it's weird because they fit together so well. Like, he has this quiet confidence, and her confidence comes with a touch of insanity, and yeah...

Actually, out of everyone, Delly is the one I pictured getting hitched first. She and Thresh had been together for six years, doing the whole hand in hand bit throughout the high school hallways. We all kind of figured it was meant to be. So when Thresh graduated from Ohio State in the spring and dumped her because he wanted to move away and she didn't, we knew that things were changing. Life was getting complicated. The two of them splitting was a rude awakening of just that.

Now, sitting amongst the three of them—Johanna, Delly, and Madge—it's pretty evident that her bachelorette party is going to be nothing short of a drunken spectacle. And well, I'm just living in it—copious amounts of alcohol and all.

A loud pop breaks me from my nostalgic daze. Foam begins bubbling over the neck of the champagne bottle in Johanna's hands.

"Hand me your glass, Everdeen." The hand not holding onto the bottle is out in front of her, gesturing for the glass next to me. I shake my head and she rolls her eyes, pouring the golden liquid into the clear container and handing it off to Delly, who sips quietly while peering over at us.

"Try not to be a pain in the ass and have fun tonight, alright? I know we're not watching bad TV in flannel pajamas, but you can make it one night without giving off your lesbian vibes." She puts an emphasis on lesbian, acting like she's waiting for me to make some kind of huge revelation. I roll my eyes, making damn sure she can see it.

"I hate to break all your scissor fantasies Johanna, but, we're never playing naked twister together. Sorry."

"In your plaid dreams, Everdeen." Johanna's hard eyes continue glaring at me from across the way while Madge jumps up and juts her head out of the moonroof again, shouting and waving her heels in the air.

"Guys, not tonight. Jo, be nice." Delly orders. While I appreciate the efforts, really, it's useless. Johanna is a twat; always has been, always will be. There isn't a thing she can say that will hurt my feelings.

"Whatever. I'm sorry if my normal Friday night doesn't involve going to Club Liquid and taking home the first swinging dick that pays attention to me."

Johanna glares. "Your Friday night doesn't involve anything but a vibrator and reruns of The Office, so you can save your bullshit for someone who cares."

For Madge's sake, I bite my bottom lip and hold my tongue. If we're going to make it through this evening without ripping one another's heads off, someone has got to be the bigger person. I certainly know that it's not going to be her. So, instead of rolling out another cheap shot, I give her a look that lets her know that the conversation is over only because I want it to be.

She blinks a few times, but doesn't say any more; just glowers at me and then fixes her stare down at her sleek grey dress. Delly dusts something off of the front of her ample cleavage, only to make me all the more aware of the lack of mine. Since we're all wearing the same thing, (insisted upon by Madge, which is the least brilliant idea she's ever had) you'd think that we'd look the same, but this is so not the case. My misfortunes include a completely loose breast area, a waist too small (which allows the fabric to continuously bunch in the middle), and a lack of proper curvature to necessary fill out the bottom half. Johanna also shares some of these problems, sans the stomach issue.

Then we all had to have matching high heels, which is just...no. I pleaded with Madge weeks ago not to force us into buying such ridiculously expensive and pointless outfits, but she was convinced it would create this amazing evening of camaraderie. Instead, I just feel like we're going to be on one of those gossip shows next to the Miley Cyrus. By the end of the night, the highlight reel is gonna be focusing on the short Everdeen girl whose tits keeps falling out of the top of her spaghetti strap dress.

I'm just grateful that she didn't force me to flat iron my hair like she normally does; the braid suits me just fine, thank you.

Delly laughs while looking over at the bottom half of Madge's body, her bare feet standing on the seat as she flails about through the moonroof. We go over a small bump which causes her to topple forward, causing Jack Daniel's and dark soda to spill everywhere. It just misses Delly and lands on the floor before us, puddling and leaving the strong smell of liquor behind.

This night is going to be a fucking nightmare.

Frustrated, I grab ahold of thin wrists and pry Madge down from the moonroof, settling her back against the seat until she's still. I so don't have the patience for this shit. We're not even at the club yet, and I'm already playing babysitter.

She protests when I remove the drink from her sticky fingers. "Pace yourself. Just until we get there, then I'll get you another one, okay?" At the rate she's going, she's going to be puking in the bathroom by midnight.

It takes a moment, but eventually she acquiesces, allowing a blissful moment of silence to linger through the air. That is, until we get closer to the bright lights, making it abundantly clear we're about to enter the city.

Downtown Cleveland is pretty gross if you ask me. We've all lived on the outskirts in the suburbs nearly our entire lives, and here's what I know: it's not safe, the streets are dirty, and the food sucks. It's not a destination I travel to willingly, and despite what everyone else seems to think, it's mundane. The bars are mostly overpriced with a ninety percent douchebag to women ratio. I've been spare changed more times than I can count, and quite frankly, the city lost all its appeal to me when the it decided to put up a giant billboard of Lebron James with his hands held to the sky like he's fuckin' Jesus or some shit (and no, the fact that people threw fire at it when he left does not make it okay now). But for Madge and Jo? They seem to never get enough. Every time I talk to them, it's another story about hanging out in the city, another photo of them wasted in a taxi or in a pub somewhere on Facebook.

"Let's go to McDonalds. I want one of those oreo flurry things," Madge slurs slowly while bringing her head down to rest against Delly's shoulder with heavy eyelids.

"Maybe when we leave the club," Delly answers between chuckles, patting her leg and looking at me with a smile. I'm beginning to think this venture isn't going to last very long.

The driver pulls up next to the curb next to a tall building with people lined around the outside, and the engine dies. I'm the first one out of the limo, eager to get out and breathe in the cool night air. I stand waiting, watching the rest of them follow suit. Only when Madge steps out, I look down and see one of her feet is bare against the warm cement.

"Madge...where is your shoe?" I raise my eyebrow at her, and it comes out a little more irritated than I meant it to. But I mean, seriously; who just loses their fucking shoe?

She bites her nails nervously and gazes at the curb with a guilty expression. "I— I... I don't know."

I roll my eyes and walk back over to the limo in attempt, my eyes skating the area to locate the missing heel. I look around the back seat, casting the bottles of liquor and champagne aside, peering under my workbag, even searching under the seats. Nothing.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," I say, throwing my arms up and letting them fall to my sides with a loud smack. "Madge, you can't get into the club without both of your shoes."

"I must've lost it out the window..." Madge mumbles drunkenly.

"Fuuuuuuck," Johanna says softly.

"What should we do?" Delly asks the obvious, but very good question, considering the fact that it's already eleven. It would be a forty five minute drive back into the suburbs, should we be forced to do so. It would be pointless to drive all the way back for a whole two-seconds.

I cross my arms and look over at Johanna and Madge, awaiting to hear their suggestions.

Johanna suddenly lights up. "Everdeen, don't you have your work bag with you?'

I shrug and nod. I brought it just in case we ended up in the middle of a drunken escapade and I somehow got stranded here. I promised Gale to help him finish up a job late tomorrow morning.

"Perfect," Jo grins, and becomes walking over to the backseat area of the limo. I watch with curiosity as she pulls out my workbag, only to begin digging through its contents.

"What the hell are you doing?" My patience is running thin.

She pulls out a tan pair of steel toe boots, and then it hits me then. My face flushes.

"Ohhhh no. I'm not wearing this dress and my Carhartt boots. No fucking way."

"Come on! It's the only way."

I shake my head furiously. "Uh-uh. Not happening."

"Katniss, come on. Work with me here. What the hell else are we supposed to do?" Johanna's eyes seem sincere, but I'm still not impressed. Folding my arms across my chest and biting my lip, I stand there in contemplation, watching Madge struggle to keep her balance.

"Why are we standing here?" She asks, drunkenly. "Katniss, you promised me a drink! Let's go in." Madge nearly trips over her own bare feet, and I just don't even know anymore.

Delly and Johanna both wear an imploring look as well, and I can't help but think that I'm being sabotaged.

I hate everyone.

* * *

Maybe if you only concentrate on the top half of me, it isn't so bad.

The bottom half is a walking billboard for ridicule.

Bad fitting gray dress? Check.

Steel-toe, brown scuffed boots covered in paint splatter? Check.

My dignity? Nope.

TMZ would eat me alive.

For practicality reasons, I have to admit, it's a blessing. Heels are somewhere in my top ten list of useless inventions. Their main existence is to blister my feet and destroy my soul.

On the upside though, perhaps this is a good thing. I'll no longer be the recipient of awful pick up lines and one-night offers.

Madge grabs me by the hand and leads me to another area of the club where the music is loud, practically deafening. The bass thrums so violently, it's off-setting my heartbeat. I wade through the sea of cologne and bad mohawks, noting how as we get closer to the bar, the traffic becomes heavier. The air is thick and the space between myself and others is nonexistent. One second I feel a sharp bump into my shoulder, then an elbow to the back, and footstep to the front. Someone nonchalantly kicks my right heel without giving as much as an apology, and another douche spills cheap tequila on the side of my dress, which, had I planned on ever wearing again, would've bothered me far more. I find myself just turning my cheek, breathing in air that tastes stale and pungent, like liquor and warm citrus.

For a moment, I seriously question the sanity of the general public. People do this for fun?

Then I look over and spot Johanna and Delly behind me, both completely relaxed, and I wonder if I really am an old soul just like Gale always says.

Before I can protest, Madge has a hold of my hand, pulling me to the dim lit dance floor and swaying her hips to the music. I just stand there. "Come on, Katniss. You got this." '

_Nope_.

I refuse, utterly unwilling to do anything that requires movement, if only to save myself the embarrassment.

Some things in life we must accept, and I've learned to embrace my lack of rhythm.

But then Johanna and Delly join in and form a circle around me. My gaze scans the room to see if anyone's watching; they aren't. Attention seems to be diverted elsewhere, and I'm suddenly grateful for it. It's oddly comforting when someone's hands land on my hips and begins maneuvering me back and forth.

Everything is hot and dry, and the heat causes a glistening sweat to cover my skin. It's gross considering the array of bodies surrounding me, constantly bumping hips and shoulders. I watch two people grinding to some song from the radio—one I'll never know the name to if I have any say in it.

After five minutes, I'm practically suffocating.

"I'm going to get you that drink, Madge," I blurt. It's the perfect excuse and I mentally applaud myself for thinking of it. Before she can even say yes, I begin to push through the crowd. Hands fall away from me without question.

It's almost a relief that the line at the bar is exceedingly long. Every second I'm here is a second I'm not required to dance.

That's when I notice that nearly every eye in the room is focused not on the dance floor, but on the display behind the bar. Shirtless and confident men move with ease, exposing their chiseled chests and hard stomachs, muscles clenching with every movement. Denim blue jeans rest low on their hips, and I'm not sure I've even seen any man—let alone three—wear pants that tight.

Their charisma is awe-inspiring.

With probably more grandeur than necessary, there is a spectacle made when pouring liquor into the line of glasses on the counter; in swift actions they flip, toss, tilt, smile proudly, but look utterly fantastic while doing so.

_What the hell is this, a bad Tom Cruise movie? Is this shit for real?_

They're all in certain areas, stationed to the left, middle, and right. The one on the right is a little bit older, but handsome nonetheless, with sun-kissed skin and brilliant bronze hair. I don't doubt for a second that his charm isn't as useful as his looks; the females surrounding him hang on his every word.

The one on the left is definitely younger, but his demeanor is entirely ill-fit in comparison to his coworkers. When he twirls a bottle of vodka between his fingers, it's too pronounced, too mechanical. His short blonde hair and strong body are adequate, but he lacks the necessary qualities needed in order to make his job look like enjoyment rather than work, something the other blonde standing next to him seems to have perfected.

His face is so devastatingly perfect, I'm sure the gods wrote myths about him.

And god, I already hate him.

His smile is so unnecessarily wide, his shoulders so amazingly broad, his hair so ridiculously curly that I can't stand it. Even from a distance I can tell how blue his eyes are, which only makes me hate him more, because they're the kind that you can't just ignore; they have to be appreciated.

And when he winks at the girl leaning over the counter, only a foot from where he stands, all that male bravado and allure is nothing if not practiced.

I'll be the first person to admit that I'm angry about a lot of things: Dad dying, Mom becoming inept in his absence, Prim having to grow up without really having parents, having to deal with pretentious men in a field that never fails to remind me how much of a woman I am. But these are all things I can understand. I can pinpoint the faults in every situation with such ease that I never have to ask why.

But this rage, this anger that I have towards a stranger who I don't even know is...bothersome. Every time he grins and shows his stupid, perfectly white teeth, I want to slap the conceited smile off his face.

I stew in my thoughts, standing quietly, staring intently. I'm so caught up in myself that it barely even registers when I'm suddenly the first in line, completely rattled and unprepared to speak. His blue eyes are looking me up and down, taking me in. I blush when his gaze settles onto my steel toe work boots and a small chuckle escapes his mouth.

"Is something funny?" I ask.

Such a charismatic smile. "Not at all. What can I get you, gorgeous?"

_Ugh_.

_Just order your drinks, Katniss. Don't say a word._ "A Jack and coke, a whiskey sour, and a bottle of water."

"Gotcha," he responds quickly. It would be a lie to say I don't notice how his vocals are delicate and smooth. Decidedly, I hate that, too.

But when turns and grabs a bottle of Jack Daniels from the a high shelf, I can't help but look at his ass, which is so deliciously perfect in jeans that look to be painted on by God himself, my stomach twists. His back muscles glisten with a thin layer of sweat, making heat rise to my cheeks. When he turns back around, I feel filthy, exploited even, for thinking about how easy it would be for me to release the front button on those pants and tug down the metal zipper, imagining the sounds of the teeth popping one by one, exposing the V low on his hips...

The heat in my face descends much, much lower. Embarrassment creeps over me. Maybe it's been too long since the last time...? I can't even remember when that was. The rage burns, forcing me to quell the all-around anger bubbling in my throat with a dry swallow. Mainly because I can't decide what I want to do more—ravage or smack the shit out of him.

In what feels like seconds, he places two drinks down in front of me and curls his lips into a smile. "Who's the water for?" He asks.

"Me."

"Thought so." He looks so damn pleased with himself.

"What's that supposed to mean?" My eyebrows narrow in on him

"You just seem like a water kind of girl."

Not wanting to give him the satisfaction, "That's pretty presumptuous. Just because I don't feel like paying ten bucks for a shitty drink?"

"Whoa, lady. How do you even know if it's shitty or not when you haven't even tried it?"

"Yeah. I'm not gonna take my chances."

He laughs. "How about this? Let me make you something, and it'll be on the house. You like it, you can come back again." He beams proudly.

"No thanks," I practically scoff.

"Come on...live a little. It's free."

"Yeah, no. I'm good."

"It's a Friday night. You look like you could use some fun," he teases.

"Excuse me?"

"Liquor makes everyone better looking..." It almost comes out like a jingle when he says it, and I really don't know if he's referring to me or other men.

I just really wish he'd stop talking. He's so much better looking when his mouth is shut.

"Are you dense? I just said no like three times."

His eyes change a little bit. They get softer, maybe. "Alright then. $16.75."

He's infuriating.

As I'm digging money from my bra, he stares half open with a stupid smile. "Nice," he comments.

I don't have my usual pockets. It had to go somewhere. "Dude, what the hell is your problem?"

"Nothing," he laughs. "You don't get out much, do you?"

Asshole.

"And what makes you think that?" My tone is a bit icy, but it's meant to be as I throw a twenty down on the counter.

"I don't know. You just seem... like..."

"What?" I ask, impatiently.

"It just seems like you're a little on edge," he finally answers.

"Well, I'm not."

"Could've fooled me."

"Whatever," I reach for the drinks, ready to walk away.

"You know, you should come here more often," he offers, stopping me in my tracks with a suggestive smile.

_Does this shit normally work for him?_

"Yeah, no. Might want to use that line on the chick with the big tits behind me. She looks right up your alley." I turn my shoulders, giving him a view of the half naked blonde, and he looks back and smiles.

"Eh, that's Cato's alley."

"Oh, I figured the whole Malibu Barbie thing worked for you. My apologies." Sorry I'm not sorry.

"Yeah, I'm more of a feisty brunette kinda guy."

_Oh, I see what you did there._

He's good. Really good. Great eye contact, patient, gives you his full attention. I'm almost convinced that maybe he isn't so bad. Perhaps I've just misjudged him. It's possible he isn't an egotistical bastard who's entirely in love with himself.

It's then that I notice the foot of a tall girl behind me, tapping impatiently, and I know that I've taken up too much of his time. Just as I'm about to take the drinks in hand, his voice perks up.

"Maybe I can show you sometime," he says, reaching forward and grabbing a hold of the end of my braid, his fingers kneading the soft hairs for a moment before giving it a gentle tug. There is nothing subtle about it, no way for me to even sit and pine or question the motives.

It's hard to say what I feel first: shameful embarrassment at the fact that I know he's an asshole, yet I still want to see him naked, or pure rage. Because somehow, I've given him the impression that it's okay to place his hands on me.

Which is why I believe my next movement is an involuntary reaction. I don't think twice when I bring my hand up and forcibly slap him across his stupid, flawless face. I'm actually quite proud of the hard sound that follows through, and he immediately brings his fingers up to graze the reddened area, never once making eye contact with me.

"Fuck, that hurt."

"Good," I mutter at him angrily. Wide eyes from behind stare at me, and I seriously take a moment to decide whether or not I want to shout some inhumane profanities at him, but I figure he's been insulting enough for the both of us. I choose the latter instead—grasping our drinks from the counter and walking away, still seething.

By the time I find Madge, Johanna and Delly again, I've stopped shaking, but I'm still really fucking mad. If they notice it though, they don't say a word. Then again, they're probably used to seeing me pissed off, so nothing has changed. Somehow, that fact is calming.

I lean against the wall, watching the three of them mucking about, laughing and dancing freely. They want me to join, but I'm too busy replaying the encounter over and over again in my mind. Did he see me staring? Did I say something that gave me away? Even if I did, he still had no right. He could've treated me with some amount of dignity.

"Katniss, are you okay?" Delly asks, leaning herself against the wall next to me. I didn't even see her come over.

"Oh yeah, I'm fine," I assure her, though, unconvincingly. She knows just as well as I do that I'm completely flustered.

"Did something happen?" She asks. I shake my head, not wanting to talk about it. I know she wants to ask again, but she doesn't; rather, she just pushes herself up and walks back over to Madge, and I keep looking at the clock on my phone, thinking about how this night can't possibly end soon enough.

And then I hear Madge and Johanna's voices carrying through the bar, howling as two of the bartenders begin to gain their footing atop of a long table only a few short feet away. The first thing I notice are his eyes, and then the baby oil covering his chest. Of course, I watch, quite mesmerized by the curvature of his back muscles, the caliber of his design. When the music starts, he moves fluidly, hips gyrating, hair sticking to his forehead. And as if he knows he's fulfilling all my fantasies, I watch darkly as the top button of his jeans pop, displaying soft, curly blonde hairs. More howling ensues.

"What the actual fuck?" It comes out before I can even stop it. Delly blinks and just starts laughing.

"Oh, come on. You know he is like, insanely hot."

"Insanely rude is more like it," I correct her.

"Still hot, though."

"I'm sure his mother is very proud," I joke, but never take my eyes off him. Not once. Otherwise, I'd miss how you can barely make out his pelvic bones as he sways his hips, or the way sweat trickles and settles onto his shoulder blades. The tight pants allow you to see every ridge, every crevice. I let out a shaky breath and my imagination runs wild.

"I think she's too busy swatting women off of her front porch to think anything," Delly says with a chuckle. I laugh, but the thought makes me uneasy and my stomach flips. I hate it and I hate him.

"She should be swatting him. What an asshole."

"Did he say something to you?" She asks curiously.

"Don't they all?" I tell her.

When the song ends and he jumps down from the table, I feel his gaze upon me just for a moment. My heart thrums loudly against my chest cavity as we lock eyes, and then he becomes a blur in a sea of people.

The music stops, someone yells last call, and I watch wistfully as people escape into the night. I check the clock on my phone for the umpteenth time, thinking about how I've been awake for the last eighteen hours; fatigue and hunger are gnawing at me.

Delly yawns as well.

"Maybe we should go find them..." She nods in agreement.

* * *

If Madge was drunk at the beginning of the night, I have no idea what she is now.

Jo has her hands wrapped tightly around her waist, attempting to keep her standing despite their significant height difference. Her hair is in disarray, shoes completely gone from her feet. What looks to be remnants of a strawberry margarita stain the front of her dress.

Well, at least I never planned on wearing those shoes again.

"We need to get her home," I state the obvious, and their faces all say the same. After coming to a general consensus that the night is over, it takes all three of us to get Madge into the limo. The minute her back falls against the seat, she's out.

Johanna laughs lightly at the sight."Well, looks like she got the night she wanted."

"I'd say so."

"But she didn't get a lap dance," Delly warns.

"Can't we just lie and say she did?" I suggest, mainly for Gale's sake. Well, a little bit for mine, too; I keep having horrible images of some guy in a banana hammock thrusting his bulge in Madge's face, and it makes me throw up in my mouth a little.

"Maybe Gale will give her a maintenance man fantasy lap dance."

The images move to Gale in nothing but a tool belt, and everything seems wrong in the world.

"Can we discuss something else, for the love of God?" I plead in a tired voice. There is nothing more in this world that I want right now than my bed.

Johanna perks up. "Speaking of God, let us give thanks. Praise whoever created those jeans. Holy fuck."

Definitely. All hail Calvin Klein.


	2. Chapter 2

Leave it to Madge Undersee to be late to her own wedding.

I cross my legs again in a different direction—just another feeble attempt to get comfortable. It's a good thing that Gale decided to only have family stand in the ceremony, because I keep seeing Posy and Vick shifting from foot to foot restlessly. Even Gale's given up at this point and has taken a seat on the altar's marble steps. Everyone's patience is wearing thin.

"I swear to God, if you don't stop that, I'm going to make you sit with the mutants in the back. You sound like a farm animal."

Johanna shoots me a glare and slowly I remove my thumbnail from between my teeth, noticing the hard layer of skin just above it pink and broken from my assault. It's a gross habit that's difficult to break, especially when I'm nervous or impatient. Now would certainly fall into that category.

"They're not mutants. They're Gale's cousins. Jesus Christ, can you not be nice just this once?"

I crane my neck and briefly glance three pews back at the thick-rimmed glasses and ruffled dress shirts of Gale's two highly intelligent, but extremely awkward distant cousins. I know one of them — Beetee —who I've met once before. He wasn't so bad once he stopped talking about firewalls and system software.

"When are you going to get it through your thick skull, Brainless? Me and nice don't go together."

"Neither did you and Marvel Callahan, but that didn't stop you from fucking him against the bathroom door at an all-you-can-eat Chinese restaurant. By the way—really classy, if you ask me."

"Keep talking. I will gut you like a fish," she threatens.

"Keep being a slut and you'll die of an STD first."

"I hate you," Johanna mutters.

"We've already established that. Now would be the time for you to educate me on things I don't know," I fire back, my arms crossed, eyes avoiding contact.

"So this is like, Honesty Hour? I get to say whatever I want?"

"Like I could stop you," I reply sarcastically.

Johanna smirks wickedly, as though this moment has been long awaited. "Oh, I've got a fucking list for you, Pocahontas. Do you need someone to teach you how to use hair styling accessories? There is such a thing as a brush; you may want to try it out. While we're at it, we can address your shoes. Who the hell wears combat boots to a wedding? You look like a lesbian lumberjack. Madge is going to flip her shit when she sees you."

I roll my eyes. "Another lesbian joke. How creative."

"If the shoe fits..."

I glance down to the black combat boots and shrug. If I was going to be forced into wearing a dress, I was going to do it comfortably, dammit.

"You know, Madge cried during Ted. I think she's lost all her credibility at this point. Besides, who are you to be judging hair, _Girl With The Dragon Tattoo_."

Johanna rolls her eyes bitterly. "Whatever. That chick got laid. When was the last time you had sex with something other than your right hand?"

"My right hand is still better than antibiotics. Oh, did you find a place to buy that special shampoo? I hear crabs are a real bitch to—"

"Hey guys, sorry I'm late," Delly interjects, throwing her purse on the ground and plopping down next to me. Her timing is perfect; otherwise God's name probably would have been taken in vain, accompanied by f-bombs and all. In a church of God, nonetheless. It's not like I'm above doing it. Neither of us is.

"Where the hell have you been, Cartwright? You know better than to leave me and Brainless in the same room together."

Delly chuckles and scoots herself back against the wooden bench. The polyester of her dress static clings to my nylon momentarily. The shock reels me back to reality, and I become even more aware just how long I've been sitting here.

My eyes roam the room for the millionth time. I've practically memorized the flower patterns scattered everywhere (which, by the way, even I have to admit are quite exquisite—the contrasting colors radiate warmth). The ceilings are so high that it makes the church Gale and I have been working in for the past few weeks look mediocre in comparison. But perhaps it's the heavy white marble floors that are the most impressive of all, with flecks of silver that sparkle against the light cascading through the windows. It's moments like these where Hazelle Hawthorne must really appreciate Gale's choice to marry Madge, I'm sure. There's no way they ever could have paid for such an extravagant event.

I feel a soft tug on my arm, and Delly leans into my side, eyes clearly pinpointed on something across the room. "Katniss... is that..."

I follow her gaze and it ends on a mess of blonde curls and broad shoulders. Next to him sits another man with familiar bronze hair slicked back neatly. Slowly, it begins to register.

"What the hell?" I don't even remember opening my mouth to speak; it just comes on its own.

"Oh, my God. What are they doing here?" Johanna asks.

I'm thinking the exact same thing. How does a scumbag bartender from Cleveland wind up at a respectable Saturday afternoon wedding in Akron? I'm half-tempted to march over there right now ask that very question.

But I don't get to because the sound of a violin playing "Here Comes the Bride" begins to fill the crowded room, and after making nearly two hundred people wait for three hours, Madge Undersee comes walking down the aisle with a bright smile and the Mayor proudly hooked to her arm.

* * *

The reception isn't nearly as elaborate as the ceremony and there's no doubt in my mind that it has everything to do with Gale. The Hob was a big part of our childhood. We sort of grew up in the place; our families would come together for dinner every Friday night, fighting over pizza and stuffing our faces with homemade stew. And while a lot of people think it's just a dingy diner with a liquor license, to us it's everything that we love about home.

"How'd you get her to agree?" I question Gale as we sit down at the head table. I knew the original plan was somewhere much fancier. He smiles proudly.

"They kept talking about Wyndham; something about a hundred and fifty bucks a plate? It was getting ridiculous. I just put my foot down. I told her we either go to Sae's or we don't have a reception at all."

I give him a half-smirk, knowing just how uncomfortable he gets when the Undersees throw their money around. Gale's a lot like me in that respect; we don't like being indebted to people, and we definitely don't like feeling inadequate—which is exactly how Madge's family makes him feel sometimes.

We sit silently for a moment, watching the train of his wife's wedding dress drag across the floor as she makes rounds, hugging all the people that not-so-patiently waited for her. When looking around, I meet a set of piercing blue eyes across the room. My breath hitches and I immediately avert my gaze.

"So... uh, I got a question for you," I say like it's no big deal. Which I guess it really isn't. It shouldn't be anyway.

"Shoot," Gale answers, but his attention is wavering as he keeps looking over at Madge. I roll my eyes at him. I know I have to be quick, otherwise I won't get the answer to the question that's been burning in my mind for the last two hours.

"How do you know those guys?" I point to the back where the two bartenders from last weekend sit, slouched in their chairs. Gale chuckles.

"If you're talking about the one on the left, Peeta, I play racquetball with him every Sunday." Gale is signaling to him—the douche-nozzle. "The other is probably his friend or something. I don't know him."

"Wait, his name is Peeta?"

Gale chuckles lightly. "Yeah, Peeta. He's a cool guy. We've become decent friends."

I'm befuddled. How can this be happening? How did I not know about this happening?

"And since when do you make racquetball boyfriends and not tell me about them? How long have you known him?"

His expression turns from amused to curious. "Like six months, I think? How the hell am I supposed to know, Katniss? It's really not that big a deal. I'm allowed to have friends other than you, you know. Why the million questions?"

"I didn't say you couldn't. I just find it strange that you've never mentioned him. And I'm just curious, is all."

He eyes me intently for a second, but I know it's going to be dropped in a matter of moments. Gale's way too distracted. He's staring at Madge like a puppy or something. It's gross.

I'm not wrong. Twenty seconds later, he's up and walking towards his wife, leaving me to my own devices. I sit there for a minute, waiting to see if I'll spot anyone else I know. I could go find Johanna and Delly, but I'd really rather not; Johanna's been driving me nuts all day. Instead, it takes me a whole three minutes to mosey on over to the bar area, where I decide to entertain myself with alcohol until I can find something better to do.

"Can I get a shot of Jäger?" I ask the bartender. He nods at me politely.

"Jäger?" I hear from behind me in a condescending manner. I snap my head around and find that smug-ass grin and disheveled blonde hair I hate so very much. Admittedly, his dress shirt is well-fitting with the sleeves rolled up just below the elbows. His hands are stuffed in his pockets. And while his black slacks aren't nearly as tight as the jeans I last saw him in, I still appreciate the fit. They make his ass look fantastic.

"Wow, go hard or go home, huh? Who would've known," he says, taking a seat on the bar stool next to me. His eyes train down and focus on my legs before coming back up and settling on my breasts longer than they should. Wow. Way to be subtle, guy.

The bartender sets a drink in front of me and then moves over to Blondie. "What'll it be?"

"I'll have, uh, Hendricks and club soda, please." I watch as the man reaches toward the gin and begins to swiftly pour it into a glass. I practically gag at the smell.

"What?" he asks, dumbfounded.

"Gin, really? You're even grosser than I thought."

"Hey, you haven't had gin until you've had Hendricks," he explains. "And you think I'm gross? I'd almost be offended if you hadn't already slapped me across the face. But then again, it was kind of hot, so..."

_Ugh._

Once his drink is set in front of him, he brings it to his lips with a smirk, staring at me the whole time. In this close of a proximity, you can see just how soft his face is, with the faintest of blonde hairs trailing across his defined chin. I silently curse that and his smile, already despising the fact that I can't hate all of him. With a face like that, I definitely can't.

"So, what's your name, Boots?" His eyes are fixated on my feet when he asks.

"I dunno. What's yours, Tight Squeeze?"

He narrows his brows and locks his gaze on me, but still smiling during the process. "'Tight Squeeze?' That's new."

I chuckle a little bit and down my shot of Jäger in one swift motion before speaking again. "I'm just saying, it takes a comfortable man to wear pants that tight. Channing Tatum would be impressed."

He laughs and I swivel my now-empty shot glass around, trying to gather the bartender's attention. If this is how the evening is going to pan out, I'm going to need a lot more than just one shot.

"My name is Peeta," he says, grinning and extending his hand. He needs to stop with that damn smile.

"Katniss," I give in.

"So, does this mean we're friends, Katniss?" He asks hopefully.

"You wish," I retort.

"Maybe I do," he says, flirtatiously.

"Well, I hate to break it to ya, but you're going to be gravely disappointed."

"And why is that?"

"Because I pretty much hate everyone. Which means I have like, three friends and even they all hate putting up with me." I sigh thankfully when the bartender fills up my glass once more.

"Well, aren't you just a little ray of sunshine."

"Hey, you're the one that wants to be friends with me." I put an emphasis on _friends_, letting him know that I'm calling his bluff.

"Hey, you took it there, not me," he says, putting his hands up innocently.

"I'm pretty sure you took it there last week."

"You look good in boots, what can I say?"

It's better to quit while you're ahead, so I roll my eyes and down my drink just before standing up. "Have fun, Tatum," I comment before walking away.

* * *

By the time they bring out the dinner buffet, I'm already feeling the ramifications from my time at the bar.

"Whoa, you doing alright there, Boots?" Peeta asks me as I nearly trip by the silverware table. He's been following me around like a stray cat all damn night.

"What are you, my babysitter?"

"Pffttt. Please, you couldn't afford me," he says, laced with a sexual innuendo.

I cackle loudly as I scoop a giant mound of macaroni and cheese to my plate. I'm suddenly aware of how hungry I am. "I'm sure the women of Cleveland will beg to differ. And please; honey, you're not that good."

"Oh, but I am," he assures me confidently.

"Dude, you're not God. You pour drinks in a cup."

"Yep. And I look _fantastic_ while I do it," he teases.

"But wouldn't you look fantastic in like, a business suit or something? I dunno. You dance on tables with your pants undone. Seems like you could do better for yourself." I mean it to be insulting in every possible way. Not that he cares, really. Nothing affects his confidence.

"Ah, I wouldn't be so sure about that..." he says. It doesn't go unnoticed by me that the only thing on his plate is lettuce and vegetables. As I place a buttered roll next to my mound of food, I suddenly become very self conscious. I take a few tomatoes just in case he decides to check.

"Alright, I'll bite. What do you make in a week? Enough to afford your Ramen noodles?" I'm oddly proud of myself for that one.

"Katniss, I'm telling you..." His eyes are pleading for me to drop it, but I'm on a mission to prove something. What that is I don't have the slightest clue.

"No, come on. I need to know. If you're _soooo_ good."

"Alright, fine. I work three days a week and I've never made anything less than two grand."

My mouth drops.

"Happy now?" he asks with a smug look.

No, not really.

I keep my mouth shut for a while as I seek out a place to sit, and it's out of pure luck that we end up finding Delly and Johanna. They both silently look at me as we sit down to join them, then look at Peeta with wide eyes, then back at me. Delly especially stares at us strangely. She mouths what looks to be "_what's going on_?"

I mouth back: _I'll tell you later._

Johanna just scoffs.

"Finn!" Peeta shouts and waves. The bronze haired man rapidly approaches us, nearly out of breath.

"Peet, I've been looking all over for you. Can you catch a cab back? I gotta go; Annie needs me."

Peeta looks up at him worriedly. "Yeah, I mean, that's fine. Is everything okay?"

"Yeah. She's just cramping. She wants me to take her to the E.R. just to be safe. I'll call you in a bit and let you know what's up."

My eyebrow raises and my interest has been piqued.

They say their goodbyes and Finn hurries off. I give Peeta a questioning look.

"His wife is pregnant. She's due in a few weeks," he explains to us.

"Wait, he's married?" I inquire.

"Yeah. They've been together forever. Finn is like, head over heels. Always has been."

I honestly would have never guessed that Finn was married. Last weekend, he had played the suave bartender role so well, flirting and keeping women on the edge of their seats. Kinda makes it hard to believe it's just for monetary gain.

Delly croons. Johanna looks like she's about to gag.

"Well, isn't that just fucking precious," she says with disdain.

"Jo!" Delly exclaims.

"What about you, Magic Mike? Any babies on the way we should know about?" Johanna asks crudely. I nearly choke on my macaroni and cheese.

Peeta laughs uncomfortably. "No, no. Definitely not."

"That you know of," she says immediately after. I snort. Delly scolds her again.

Decidedly, I stop drinking. It makes it a little easier when everyone starts dancing, because I'm only a little fuzzy then, but definitely more coherent than I had been just an hour earlier. I take the time to sit and watch across the room as Gale and Madge dance (poorly, might I add) to cheesy hip hop songs. One song in particular about Apple Bottom jeans has me holding my stomach from laughter. Gale catches my eyes from across the room and makes his way over to me, pulling me up from my chair.

"Come on, Catnip," he says, gently tugging on my wrists. "Dance with me. Have some fun, eh?"

I shake my head, laughing. "No way. You're having enough fun for the both of us."

"What? Is it because you think I can't dance?"

I can't help the muffled chuckle when it escapes, despite my best efforts to hold back.

"Well, I'll have you know, I'm one of the best dancers in this room." Gale says proudly.

"Yeah, whatever you say, Hawthorne," I tease.

"Coooome on." I sigh irritatedly Gale pulls me to the floor by where Peeta is standing.

"Peet, Katniss here thinks I can't dance."

Peeta laughs a bit. "Is that so?"

"I think we should prove her wrong," Gale states.

"I dunno. Gale's got some pretty good moves on the racquetball court," Peeta warns me.

I scoff with amusement. "Please. I've known Gale half my life. His best dance was 'The Macarena' back in junior high." A memory of our 6th grade Sadie Hawkins dance comes to mind, where Gale tried to dance with Glimmer Hammel and made a fool of himself. He still isn't over it.

"Hey, it was just that one time!"

A jazzy saxophone swing starts playing through The Hob speakers.

"Uh oh," Gale says with a sly grin, moving his feet to the beat.

Peeta starts bobbing his head to the music while backing up into me. Madge glances over at me and we meet eyes momentarily. I shake my head at her, hoping that this isn't really happening.

_I'm gonna pop some tags_

_Only got twenty dollars in my pocket_

But it's not my imagination when Gale starts flailing his arms about. I cover my face with one hand as he makes a spectacle of himself. Part of me wonders if I should try to save him from further embarrassment, but who am I to take this from him? It's his damn wedding. And as much as I want to look away, I find it impossible to do so. It's all too entertaining, especially because Peeta's movements are entirely smooth and move with the beat. Gale's? ...Not so much.

_I wear your granddad's clothes_

_I look incredible_

_I'm in this big ass coat_

_From that thrift shop down the road_

As Gale continually swings his hips in attempt to prove to everyone that he can indeed dance, he does just the opposite. Madge laughs as her husband nearly trips and falls over his own two feet, twice. Luckily, Peeta's gyrations takes some of the focus away from him. I bite on my bottom lip when he spins around and his shirt lifts in the back, exposing the tiniest bit of skin. It's noteworthy as well that the right ass pocket of his black slacks has a Calvin Klein logo.

I suddenly feel the need to write the designer a letter—_thank you for existing._

The wanky hip hop music ends, and with that, thankfully, so does Gale's awful dancing. But then Peeta is pulling me with both arms further into shiny floor. I smile at the mess of light curls sticking to the sweat along his forehead. His lips are forming a tight smile. And despite all the laugher, an upbeat melody accompanied by an organ fills the room. The male vocals are smooth—lovely, even.

_When there's nowhere else to run_

_Is there room for one more son_

_One more son_

"Let's see what you got, Katniss..." he says. I don't even get the opportunity to argue with him before we begin moving.

_Another head aches, another heart breaks_

_I am so much older than I can take_

_And my affection, well_

_It comes and goes_

I feel his large, strong hand wrap around my waist, gently digging into the small of my back. I follow along his steps immediately. It's all a blur as his arm extends and pushes me away, only to pull me back. Then I feel him lift of our conjoined hands, and I twirl. It's fast. I giggle as the beat thrums. My feet try to keep up. I nearly trip, but Peeta keeps me steady, bringing his hand back along my waist. The drums and guitars carry on.

_You gotta help me, yeah_

_Don't you put me on the backburner_

The room feels different. Even trying to think of the last time I had felt this carefree as he spins me around, is nearly impossible. My braid whips around the back of my neck as he pulls me closer, pressing his fingers into my left hip. This close, I can so clearly smell the soft mixture of skin, sweat, antiperspirant and lavender shampoo. It kind of does something that I can't quite describe.

_While everyone's lost, the battle is won_

_With all these things that I've done_

_All these things that I've done_

My heart beats faster as the music picks up. I'm finding more and more that his smile is contagious.

_If you can hold on_

_If you can hold..._

Then, innocently, he spins me around again just as the music comes to an end. My chest rises and falls. He watches me closely. It's then that I think that maybe, just maybe he isn't a douche after all.

"You're not half bad," he says, leaning in and nuzzling my neck. I can feel his lips ghosting over my skin, heat rising to my cheeks. I want to push him away, but I can't. His gaze is so powerful, his exudate of hotness so strong. I feel it. And he knows. He knows that I want to see him naked, and it just makes me want to wipe that look right off his face.

"Ugh. Do you have to ruin everything?"

"What?" He looks confounded.

Rattled and needing a break, I pull away and leave him behind. He yells out to me, of course, but I ignore it. My feet are already moving quickly. I just hope need him to leave me alone for a minute until I can gather my composure.

Thankfully, I find Delly sitting at a table, nursing some kind of fruity cocktail. I plop a seat next to her and let out a heavy sigh.

"So, you and the Hot Bartender hit it off, eh?" She asks.

"Dear God, no," I answer. "He just keeps following me around everywhere like a goddamn lost dog."

"And that's a bad thing?" She asks.

"It is when he can't keep his mouth shut."

"He was nice at dinner. I don't see why you think he's so bad."

"He makes everything about sex."

"Isn't everything kind of already about sex?"

"No," I answer. "It's not. He's rude. And pompous. He makes me feel...objectified."

"Oh, and like you don't objectify him."

"Oh, please. He's one step away from the male version of the _Coyote Ugly_. He objectifies himself."

"Oh," she says, quite dumbfoundedly.

"What?" I ask. "Spit it out."

"It's just I'm not really following your logic."

"There is no logic to follow. He's an asshole, end of discussion," I claim in irritation.

"Um, if you say so."

For once in my life, I feel like I need to talk to Johanna.

"Where's Jo?" I ask.

"She left a little bit ago," Delly replies, sipping through her straw, contently.

Glancing up at the clock, I notice it's 1:14 A.M. It dawns on me that I hadn't even looked at it all night until just now. Normally, I'm counting down the minutes.

"I'm gonna head out, too," I tell her. "If Gale asks, tell him I'll call him." Delly nods in response.

I grab my light jacket that's hanging from the rack near the front doors and swing it over my shoulders, hearing my keys jingle from the front pocket. It can still get cold at night here, even for May, and I didn't want to take any chances while being in a dress.

"Leaving so soon?"

I look up and see him standing before me, hands behind his back, rocking back and forth on his heels. His face looks willing, hopeful even. Maybe he was waiting for me to say bye? I didn't think it would've mattered either way.

"Yeah. It's late."

"Are you gonna be okay to drive?" He asks in a concerned manner.

"For sure. I stopped drinking hours ago." He nods.

"Mind if I catch a ride? Just to Market Street? I can walk from there."

I nearly had forgotten about Finn having to leave earlier. His adorable face that makes me want to punch baby unicorns in the face makes me want want to tell him no; but it's nearly two o'clock in the morning, and even I have a heart.

"Come on," I tell him, waving him towards the door with me. "Let's get this over with."

He grins sheepishly. I yawn as we make our way outside and to the car, and I notice then just how awake he seems to still be. It makes me feel old until I remember that he probably keeps ridiculous hours with his chosen profession.

"Don't give me that face. I've been up since 8," I say, hitting the unlock button on my keypad.

"Hey, I wasn't judging," he responds while opening the door and slipping into the passenger seat.

We drive mostly in silence, with the occasional flicker of the radio station. With fatigue beginning to set in on my part, it's about the only thing keeping me awake. That and the awareness of being alone and only a few short feet away from Peeta. It's certainly enough to keep my mind buzzing.

"Where do you live?" I ask.

"You can just drop me off —"

"It's two in the damn morning. Where do you live?" I demand.

Finally, he give me the directions to his apartment. It's not much farther from where he was asking me to drop him off at and I can't help think about how it was a silly notion in the first place.

He hums along to something on the radio. It's not something I'd expect him to enjoy, but the muffled sounds of his voice makes time go by a little faster.

I turn down a dark road and pull up to the curb he points at. My eyes widen as I examine my surroundings. There's broken siding, a gravel driveway, a crumbling porch; for someone who claims to make two grand a week, the apartment building kind of seems like a dump.

I choose not to comment. I think he's expecting me to, because when he says "Thanks," it hangs in the air like he's waiting for something. My eyes meet his for a brief moment. I try not to focus on his lips; instead, my gaze moves to the steering wheel.

And when he leans over, I wait for it. I thought at some point during this awkward car ride he may try to kiss me. I guess I just expected for the landing point to be my lips, not my cheek.

"Goodnight, Katniss," he says while pulling away and opening up the car door. The sounds of his footsteps hitting the pavement fill the dead of night just before he closes the door.

My fingers graze over my cheek to where his lips just were, if only to make sure I didn't imagine it.

Something happens though as I watch him unlock the door to his building. When he's finally inside and turns on the light, I let out a shaky exhale. My mind spins, and every thought is filled with the bright shade of his eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

"Gale, I'm taking off," I shout over to him, noting that it's already past twelve. I have to get to the other side of town by one.

"Catnip, seriously?" he asks, looking around in disbelief. "We still have to run lines through this whole wall. The contractors can't drywall until we're done. If you leave, they're going to be pissed."

I throw my arms up in defeat, trying not to look at the disaster that is the church corridor. Between his honeymoon and having to wait for special lights on backorder, we're really far behind. The most we've ever been. I've only gotten to install the first switch plate and run lines to it; there are four more that remain for this particular space.

"Dude, I've been working twelves for two weeks. It's your turn to stay late."

He scowls. I don't care. It's just going to have to wait.

I wipe a layer of sweat from my forehead, careful not to get the soot that covers the tips of my fingers on my face. Not that it would matter. July weather tends to have this effect—the dust lingering through the air always sticks to your skin, and when mixed with perspiration, it leaves behind a film that makes you feel like you've bathed in dirty water. I can practically taste the earthy grain on my tongue.

Not to mention it's musty, gross, and so goddamn hot in here that even my tank top is clinging to every inch of skin it can hold on to. I lift the bottom of the thin fabric up, swiping it across my brows, eyeing the streak of dirt it leaves behind.

Gale kneels down in frustration and sighs heavily, his face full of soot, looking just as tired as I am.

"I told you, if I don't take Buttercup to the vet today, Prim is going to kill me. I'll come in early tomorrow morning to help get us caught up."

"Can't you just take him another day later of the week?" His tone is suggestive.

"Do you want to be the one to call Prim and tell her that?" I ask.

Finally, he smiles a little bit. "Not really, no."

"I didn't think so."

* * *

"God damn you, you stupid fat-shit cat."

Attempt Number Four to swipe at Buttercup's tail ends in failure. He just curls himself farther into the corner, tucked against the wall neatly. It's 12:45, I haven't changed yet, and at the rate we're going, we'll be there sometime next week.

Fuck.

My phone begins to loudly buzz at the kitchen table.

"Yeah?" I answer, my tone laced with irritation.

"Have you left yet?" Prim questions from the other line.

"I'm trying. You're not exactly helping the cause right now," I explain to her.

"Katniss, you're supposed to be there in fifteen minutes!"

"Look, I got it, okay? I'm leaving in a minute."

"He's in a lot of pain, Kat."

"Buttercup stepped on glass, he isn't dying, Prim. I'm trying to get him into the carrier now."

If that damn cat can get all the way on top of the kitchen cabinets, clearly his leg is fine. I'm half-tempted to let the furry bastard just suffer; he'll outlive us all anyway.

But if I didn't then Prim would hate me, and I just can't deal with all that.

"Be gentle with him. He's old."

"Yeah, I got it," I tell her flatly.

I roll my eyes and climb back up on the counter. Dangerously, with the phone tucked between my shoulder and ear, I lean over a little farther to reach for his matted orange tail again. He stills when my hand grows near and lets out a loud hiss, flashing his yellow eyes at me.

It's cool—two can play this game.

"Hey, you're the one that promised to take care of him while I was gone," she reminds me.

Yes, this is a conversation I recall quite well—the one where Prim told me that she was moving to Chicago permanently. I always try not to sound too bitter about her being away, but truth be told, I miss her like crazy.

She usually comes home during the summer months, but this time decided this time to stay and take an advanced biology course to better prepare for the MCATS. We've spent so little time together in the last five years, and while I partially blame my mother for it, I know it's not entirely her fault. Sending Prim away to boarding school her senior year was indeed the perfect way to punish me for criticizing her parenting skills, but deep down, I know it's what my sister wanted. She wanted to move away. Her heart's always been in Chicago and I accept it, even if it kills me sometimes.

"Yes, and I am taking care of him. Now let me off the phone so I can get him to the vet."

We exchange a series of "I love yous" before hanging up.

Back to the task at hand, I spot a spatula in my utensil container. I quickly grab at it and use it to promptly swat at Buttercup.

Frantically, he darts down like some kind of freak ninja cat, and I end up grabbing him and locking him into the carrier. Once he's in, I contemplate changing into something more clean but there's no time for all that.

He meows like hell once we're in the car, so I turn up the music a touch louder to drown out his cries. This method proves to be useless because he then just wails more desperately. This goes on for a half hour, and despite my driving like a bat out of hell, when I pull into the veterinary clinic, it's a quarter past one.

That's when I notice Buttercup — still mewling in his carrier — has pissed all over himself.

"Seriously? What the hell..."

I rub my temples momentarily and hoist his carrier from the passenger seat, muttering profanities as I walk to the front entrance. There's not a whole hell of a lot I can do at this point, so...

A ding echoes through the empty waiting room when I open the door. Ignoring the horrendous shag carpeting and 1970's decor, I walk to the front counter and place Buttercup on the ground before it. Hidden behind an old wooden clipboard, I wait for the person sitting in front of me to offer assistance. Slowly, the clipboard is lowered, and set of ice-blue eyes through thick, black square frames peer back at me.

Glasses or not, I'd recognize those eyes anywhere.

My reaction comes and goes in a series of stages—stage 1: thrill, stage 2: utter fucking disbelief, stage 3: realization.

"Fuuuuuck," I barely whisper.

I suddenly become acutely aware of the hole in the back of my stained khaki Carhartts; intensely self-conscious over the layer of soot covering my chin, neck, collarbone, and really every-fucking-where; and ridiculously embarrassed at the potent piss smell emanating from fat-shit cat's carrier.

"Katniss?" he asks, perfectly stunned but polite. His smile is so obnoxiously genuine that my heart may implode.

I take note of his long, white lab coat that says "Mellark" in cursive across the chest pocket. His hair—completely unruly—looks like gold in the near-white light; so much so in fact, I nearly reach out just to see what it would feel like between my fingers. Plus, he's got this whole sexy nerdy thing going on right now that completely differentiates from how I'm used to seeing him. It makes my stomach flip in ways I don't want to understand.

I feel like I'm in that Leonardo DiCaprio movie—the one where he has like, seventeen different occupations. Except it's Peeta's floppy golden hair and not Leo's. And Peeta looks way better in scrub pants. It's disconcerting, really. It also makes me feel like he must have to spend a long time picking out clothes in the morning.

I'm just standing like an idiot, needing to say something. "Uhhhhh..." Great. I can't even make an intelligible sentence. Good job, Katniss.

Peeta's sly smile returns. He stands there in a cool and collected manner, his eyes transfixed on me. They move up and down, discerning every inch of sawdust and grime stuck to my skin. I shift from foot to foot in an attempt to casually angle myself away from him. He smiles again, and I'm pretty sure he's enjoying this—me looking like an dummy in every possible way.

"The cat pissed all over himself," I finally blurt, just needing to say something.

"Oh, okay," he responds.

"Sorry."

"Katniss, it's perfectly fine. It's pretty common, actually."

"Really? That's weird."

Just when I think I'm about to look like even more like a dummy, a high-pitched cry comes from down near my feet.

Peeta walks around from behind the counter and kneels down, weight resting on his toes, knees directly parallel to my ankles. "So, this is your cat?" He asks curiously while unclasping the metal bracket that holds the lid in place.

"It's my sister's cat," I explain.

The second it's off, Buttercup comes bustling out. Peeta immediately grabs the back of his neck swiftly, acting like it's no big deal that a set of claws are swatting after him. He holds him still while an angry groan comes from the cat's throat.

"He's feisty. Sound familiar?" Peeta teases, coming back up to meet me at eye level, Buttercup still in hands. He motions over to a waist-high stainless steel table in a small room nearby and sets him down.

"He's also an asshole. Sound familiar?" I retort.

Smirking but disregarding my comment, he begins to ask questions."What's wrong with him?" Peeta sifts his long fingers through matted fur, carefully examining the cat.

"His foot. He hasn't put any weight on it for a week."

I stand there for a few seconds, holding Buttercup in place before I hear the smack of latex gloves hitting skin. Peeta pulls the corners taut over his wrists and begins lifting Buttercup's legs one by one into the air, making especially sure to examine the pads of his feet thoroughly. One in particular makes him hiss loudly. He pulls a small penlight from his pocket and shines it on the area.

"Well, it looks like his paw is pretty swollen. Does he go outdoors?"

"Um, sometimes," I admit. He isn't supposed to, but he sneaks out when I open the back door to take the trash out.

"It's common for cats who spend time outdoors to get insect bites or step on something sharp, like wire fencing or glass."

He shines a ray of light on the back paw. "See that right there? It looks like he's been bitten by a wasp."

I peer at the reddened mark closely. "That's it?" I ask in a deadpan voice.

He chuckles a bit. "Well, essentially, yes. I'll clean it up and bandage it for you, but honestly it's no big deal."

All this for nothing, I think to myself as I watch Peeta intently. The penlight is back in his pocket, but now he's holding the fur tight on the back of Buttercups neck while looking over his teeth.

"How often do you feed this cat? He's really, really overweight."

I shrug. "I dunno. I just make sure his food bowl is always full."

"Be careful with that. You don't want him getting diabetes at this age. Has he been vomiting frequently or had any kind of weight loss recently?"

I shake my head.

"Just keep an eye on it. Try regulating his food. I recommend a small cup in the morning before you leave for work, then one at night." Noting his serious tone, I nod this time.

Carefully, he begins to clean the wound on the pad of the cat's foot. "So... uh... you work here?" I question weakly.

With a smile but still concentrating, he replies: "You could say that."

"So what, you're like a vet tech or something?"

"No. I'm a grad student, about to start my last year of Veterinary School at OSU. I just intern here for the summer."

My lips purse and then form a perfect "O." Not what I was expecting. None of this is, really. I'm still trying to process all of it.

"Any other occupations that I should know about? You're not like, a lawyer on Mondays, are you?"

He shakes his head and continues concentrating, but a wry smile remains. I take note of the single blond curl that falls across his forehead, lingering just so.

"Shit. Hold him here for a second, please," he requests. I take over for him while he leaves the room. Momentarily, I hear rustling from a close distance. Upon return, Peeta has in one hand several packets of information and in the other a few forms to fill out. Along with a pen, he sets everything on the chair across the room for me.

"Sorry, I forgot to have you fill this stuff out earlier. Usually we have a clerk, but she has today off."

I shrug, honestly thankful for a mindless task. It gives me something to concentrate on other than him. And right now, he has me really confused.

The next few minutes are spent quietly. I sit across the room with the clipboard in my lap while he works diligently on bandaging up the cat, who has now given up on crying. Every so often I look over at him working quickly and perfectly content, as though this is what he was made to do. My breath hitches when he catches me eyeing him from a distance, smiling softly as our gazes connect. Immediately I look down, acting as though it was merely a coincidence.

"All set," Peeta calls out to me, his voice confident, like he's on to me.

I don't know how he manages to get Buttercup in the carrier without a fight, but I certainly don't complain. When we reenter the lobby, I'm half-expecting it to still be empty, but surprisingly there's a scraggly middle-aged man standing next to a large scale, weighing a huge Doberman.

"Hey, Haymitch. I didn't know you were back from lunch," Peeta calls out. The man turns and waves him off, as if he's totally insignificant. "I told you I'd be right back, boy," he says gruffly, like we should've known all along.

Ignoring his tone, Peeta chuckles and he walks behind the counter, shuffling papers around. I idly hand him the clipboard and my credit card.

"Nah, don't worry about that. I'll take care of Buttercup today."

I give him a glare. "Peeta, I got it."

"Your money is no good here," he says.

A familiar twist in my stomach returns when we both reach for the credit card at the same time, each attempting slide it in the opposite direction. Our fingers touch momentarily—skin on skin, heat against heat. The electricity lingers, I can feel his gaze moving slowly, beginning at the corners of my lips and landing on my collarbone. The grainy, sweaty flesh there itches, and I flush at the thought of him staring at me like this. It makes my ears turn pink and my body tense, but my heart starts drumming erratically.

I fucking hate that he does this to me.

Get it together, Everdeen.

I pull my hand back first and he wins. "Spend it on getting Buttercup some diet food instead," he commands.

"Okay, boss," I respond sarcastically.

"Hmmm... Does that mean I get to tell you what to do?" he teases.

I roll my eyes dramatically, making sure he can see it. "I really don't like you right now." Immediately after the words come out, I realize the fault in my phrasing.

"Just right now?" His eyes are bright and hopeful, like maybe—just maybe—I'll say something he wants to hear.

I shake my head and try to recover. "Nope. Just because I said 'right now' does not mean that it doesn't also pertain to previous times."

He isn't buying it.

"You can't take it back now. There's something you're not telling me, Katniss." Peeta's extremely perceptive, maybe even to a fault. I wipe the sweat from my palms against my outer thigh, thankful for the opportunity to do something with my hands. Why am I such a mess around him?

I'm not going to give him the satisfaction of honesty. That would require me to admit things, like how only his ass could make scrub bottoms look that fantastic. And let's face it—his ego is big enough for the both of us.

When I don't respond right away, Peeta's eyes flicker as he softly asks, "Why do I feel like you're lying to me?"

I scoff. "Like how you didn't tell me that you're some kind of doctor?"

"Veterinarian," he corrects.

"Well, either way, I hope you don't expect me to call you Doctor," I joke, trying to change the subject, all the while hoping that it doesn't seem like I'm flirting. Is this flirting? How does that even work? I'm not entirely convinced I know how to flirt. I do know that hating someone and wanting to have sex with them at the same time is entirely too complicated for me, though.

"You're changing the subject. What aren't you telling me?"

"You're reaching, Mellark." I point to the stitching above his chest pocket.

Slowly, he shifts out of his chair and places his palms flat on the counter just before leaning forward. I scan the room when I feel his face inching near mine, finding nothing but empty space. My heart drums against my ribcage. It's faint, but I can feel his breath on my cheek and the heat of his lips ghosting my flesh as he begins to whisper against my ear. The shock of it causes me to bite my bottom lip.

"You and I both know that I'm not reaching."

My pulse thrums between my legs.

"Oh, but you are," I assure him before inhaling deeply, thinking about how it's not fair for his hair to smell this good.

"_Secrets don't make friends, Katniss_," he whispers lightly.

His words resonate, sending a white-hot heat running through my body, making me shudder at the closeness. But I never move an inch, even when his nose grazes my cheek.

"Peeta," I voice back steadily, finally regaining some sense of composure. I can't see his face, but I can feel him smirk into the corner of my jaw. Needing some kind of distance, I swallow thickly and take a step back.

"That was your first mistake. We aren't friends," I say coolly, looking him directly in the eyes.

"Good," he responds lowly, his face still impossibly close. "Because the last thing I want to be is your friend."

I stand still as ever, swallowing the golf ball-sized lump in my throat. Even though we're agreeing on this friendship matter, somehow I'm getting the impression that it means two entirely different things.

"Have a good day, Katniss." I watch as his hand reaches forward to hand me the aftercare instructions sheet, a sly smile spread across his lips.

I hate him.

* * *

I'm in the middle of shaping conduit two weeks later when I get the first text message. I'm pushing my weight down on the metal bender when the sharp buzz in my back pocket shocks me—so much, in fact, that it forces me past my ninety-degree angle.

I'm not someone who enjoys talking on the phone. My cell's main personal purpose in life is to communicate with my sister, and that's pretty much it. There is no Twitter, no Netflix, and no Facebook. It's big and bulky with an obnoxiously thick case that won't allow it to be ruined by paint or drops from high places. Because I hate carrying it around, half the time I forget I even have the damn thing. And technologically speaking, it's not the latest or greatest; that would be pointless. The only thing I ever press is the big green dial button.

Everyone who knows me knows this.

So you can imagine why I'm pretty stunned by the whole scenario. I'm also mildly irritated because it just made me fuck up my conduit pipe.

I pull out my phone and press the home button that lights up the screen.

_How's your puss?_

What the fuck?

I don't have time for nonsense, so I disregard the message and slide my phone back into my pocket, returning to my work.

A few minutes later, I feel a vibration against my ass again.

_I also need to know your favorite food._

Buzz.

_That way, I know where to go when I take you out to dinner._

There's only one person I know who's this confident.

Buzz.

_Dinner as, you know, not friends._

I'm in so much trouble.


	4. Chapter 4

With a heavy duty ruler propped against the framing mount, I press the felt tip of my sharpie down, leaving black dots in its wake. It's an action I've done countless times, and after years of practice, my precision for drill placements almost never waver.

The black cap is trapped between my teeth as I make a few last marks, figuring I've got around ten more feet of cable to run for the day before I can call it quits. I'm pretty much fried. My feet hurt. My hands hurt. I need a turkey sub, a Mountain Dew, maybe a bubble bath, and about eight hours of sleep before I can do anything else coherently.

I'm mid drill on my first mark when I feel a vibration from the bottom of my tool belt. It shouldn't surprise me at all, because I'm 99 percent sure that it's a text, and about 100 percent sure who it's from; yet the thought makes me stop and have a brief internal debate. Do I even want to know what it says? Not that it matters, really. I always end up reading the messages regardless, but this time I'm just going to assume the text closely resembles the other slew that I've received over the past three weeks.

_Does your puss miss me? What kind of boots are you wearing today? Have you thought about me naked yet?_

Decidedly, I ignore the messages and continue on, but don't get very far before I'm stopped by another fierce buzz. _What the fuck?_ Seriously? Quickly, I pull out my phone out and tap the home screen.

_You can't ignore me forever, Katniss._

I want to roll my eyes; I really do. The fact that I don't just makes me angry.

Damn him to hell.

Maybe it's just because it's 9:00 P.M and there isn't another soul in this five thousand square foot church that can see me. Or maybe it's just that he has this unnerving, profound effect on me that I really don't want to admit. But without avail, as I finish my work with a stupid, dumb ass grin plastered across my face, all I can think about is how I _could_ respond to his message.

It's when my tools are all packed up, and I'm sitting on the top of the metal box, staring down at the screen that I start to type out a response to his last one:_ I can do whatever I want_. But I immediately erase it, because...reasons. Reasons that I'm sure I have no interest in understanding. Not anytime soon, anyway.

It doesn't stop me from reading a few of those messages over again, though.

* * *

There are two times that I love going to the gym: really early in the morning, and Sunday afternoons.

You can pretty much guarantee amid these circumstances it's nothing but old ladies, and they don't give you dirty looks when you spend too long on the thigh-master machine, or ogle at you when your boobs are bouncing as you run on the treadmill. I learn from experience, so I really try to stick to my preferred schedule.

Without a soul around me, I put my earbuds in place and start cranking my playlist - angry Alanis Morisette music, Florence and the Machine, The Killers. About forty five minutes into my cardio workout I start to feel the burn in the back of my thighs, and heat running across my heels. Another half hour later, sweat trickles down the nape of my neck, and my breathing runs ragged. I'm desperate for a break.

With a dry mouth and empty water bottle, I walk over to the drinking fountain and find someone already there, head bent down, collecting water. I stand a couple feet behind as a courtesy, drumming my fingers against the wall, patiently waiting my turn.

He brings his head back up, and that's when I notice the ridiculously sculpted ass cheeks in tight work out shorts. The muscles beneath the thin fabric flex all gloriously, and I bite my lip, allowing myself to become further acclimated with disheveled blond hair, broad shoulders, and...

Well, shit.

Peeta snaps his head around and trains his blue eyes over to me, wiping water from his chin with the back of his hand. Amid recognition, a sly smirk spreads across his face.

Something tells me that smile is just for me.

"Did you just check me out?" He asks with tight knit brows, his eyes trailing over me just as I was doing to him. I try not to think about the way his tight wife-beater is clinging to his glistening skin, muscles raw and taut. He has...fantastic biceps.

"Me?" I ask while pointing at myself, fully aware of the stupid grin on my face. His eyes then search the near empty gym as if to ask, _'who else would it be?_'

"Nope. Definitely not."

"Um, Katniss..." he replies with a knowing smile, "I hate to break it to ya, but I kinda think you were staring at my ass."

I can feel how hot my cheeks are, and to save myself from embarrassment, I push away the nerves and attempt to find something on him that isn't exuding a fuckton of sex appeal. When I look down at his feet and snort, I totally realize I have an out. "Um, Peeta," I mimic in the same manner he used just a moment prior, "I hate to break it to ya, but you do realize you're wearing sock shoes, right?"

"What's wrong with sock shoes?" His eyes look worried, but playful.

I glance down at his feet again, looking at the separated black toes with green stripes. There's an Adidas logo near the ankle that clearly pairs with the shorts he's wearing. The fact that he has matching gym outfits and shoe socks is...

"What?!" He asks as I start to burst out laughing.

"Please tell me you aren't serious right now," I say in half breaths with red cheeks.

"Dude, you can't make fun of these. They're good for balance!"

"Oh my god. Please don't try to justify this. You're wearing shoe socks with matching shorts. Nothing is getting you out of this." I say it as if he clearly needs to be reminded.

"These are good to work out in," he defends, throwing his hands up in the air animatedly.

"They're also good for looking like a total douche in. And you have on like, the world's tightest tank top. Are you auditioning for a boy band? Because you look like Marky Mark."

He pulls the hem of his white tank top out as if to examine it thoroughly. With the waistband of his shorts sitting low on his hips, this gesture exposes a good portion of his stomach, revealing the slightest trail of fine, blond hair.

My eyes follow the yellow brick road, and I beg myself not to look, I really do. But apparently my vagina is in charge, and I stare without subtlety. It takes two seconds for a white hot heat to shoot through my body, and about two more for it to settle between the junction of my thighs.

Fucking hell, I need to get it together. I feel like one of those girls with posters taped to the celing above their bed.

I'm also going to ignore the fact that my mind just went to that visual.

God, those are some really tight shorts.

_Nope, nope, nope_.

I really hope he can't tell how flushed my face is, or how hard my neck bobs when I swallow. But when I can finally look up again, I notice his eyes are watching me intently, and he's wearing that confident grin. It tells me how fucked I am, and as endearing as all of this is, I'd really like to avoid a 'just admit you want to sleep with me' conversation.

Imagine my surprise when his eyes fill with sincerity, and it begins with "You haven't responded..."

Ill prepared words formulate on the tip of my tongue when someone yells, "Peet!" Peeta cranes his neck and I look back and find Finnick walking towards us. "What are you doing? You're supposed to be spotting me, man."

I let out a heavy breath, silently thanking him for his perfect timing. His eyes trail over to me, scanning my figure, taking me in. I watch and he settles himself on the wall next to me, the weight of his back falling against the brick, further exposing a shirt that says: _free mustache rides._ I roll my eyes when he gives me a more than flirtatious wink.

"So this is why you've kept me waiting?"His smile is wide, wry, and aimed at me.

"Sorry, Finn. Katniss here was explaining to me why shoe socks make me look like a douche. And apparently, I look like Marky Mark," Peeta laughs, soft blue eyes sparkling in my direction. My stomach flips.

"Yeah. You kinda look like a douche," Finnick admits with a pouted expression. "I tried telling you about the shoes."

Peeta scoff in disbelief. "Fine. Say what you want about the shoes, but I do not look like Marky Mark."

"Ugh," Finnick says, making a disgusted face. "That guy's creepy as hell."

"Yeah. Not helping," Peeta reminds him.

Finnick just carries on like he didn't hear him. "He's like...a grown dude who fingers high school girls on roller coasters." I look to Peeta, then search Finnick's expression for a grin, but he's entirely serious. All I can do is shake my head.

"Finn," Peeta says sternly, "I'm pretty sure he didn't really do that. It was a movie from like...sixth grade."

"Whatever. I'm not past it yet, okay?"

As if it were meant to happen, I look up and find Peeta's gaze, and hold it. He smile slides further as we laugh at Finnick's admission in tandem.

"I mean, it's not like Marky Mark is the worst person to be compared to," I point out.

"This is true," Peeta replies. "Although, I'm not sure Marky Mark is a step up from Channing Tatum."

I shrug my shoulders unceremoniously, "Eh, they're pretty even."

"Dude, at least she didn't say you look like that kid from Twilight. You know, the one that has that scrunched nose. Kinda looks like a llama," Finnick adds.

"Please God, no," Peeta pleads.

"He's kinda buffer than you, though," Finnick teases.

Peeta rolls his eyes before giving him a stern look. "I hate you right now."

I can't help the laughter that follows, and as much as I hate to admit it, my cheeks hurt from smiling.

Yet, it still only takes an irritated throat clear and a bitter _excuse me_ to ruin the moment.

Impatient glares flicker in my direction, and suddenly I become aware of the water fountain I'm so rudely blocking. A woman taps her foot wildly not too far behind me, and another next to her gives me a steely expression. I guess I didn't realize how long I'd been standing there.

Tactfully, I slide away quickly, now aware of time's existence. My gaze flits to the clock, my body shuffling like I have things to do. "Oh, wow. It's already four..."

Maybe it's just me, but I swear I see a disappointed look on Peeta's face when he realizes I'm about to walk away.

My thoughts are validated just as I'm about to move my feet, and I feel a large hand cover my small one, stopping me in my tracks. I'm not shocked by it, but when I spin around and glance up at him, his expression catches me. It's displaying everything I've never seen from him before—hands are crammed into short pockets, eyes are creased in the corners, teeth are sunk into his bottom lip.

If I didn't know any better, I'd think he's nervous.

With the comedic spell no longer among us, we're just standing there, exchanging silent glances. The heaviness of the moment isn't overlooked on my part, and it really only alludes to how awkward the next words spoken are likely to be. I wasn't prepared for this, and judging by the look on his face, neither was he. I kind of feel like an idiot just standing there, so I nervously fiddle with the lid of my water bottle, prying the elastic from the edges, hoping the motion will help me conjure up something worthwhile to say.

He fills the silent void. "So, did you ever plan on responding...or..?"

And he just puts it right out there, in all its glory, laying it on the surface.

I guess I shouldn't have expected anything less.

I'm definitely not prepared for it though, and all I can do is just let my shoulders shift heavy, waiting for something to surface on my tongue. He runs a hand through his hair, leaving a line of unruly curls to stick out at the sides, and he lets out a long sigh.

"Not that you had to, I just..."

The more time that passes, the more nervous he becomes, making me feel like total shit. I need to say something, I can't just sit here and watch him struggle.

"Peeta," I begin, not having a single clue where I'm going with it. "You...you can't steal my number from your vet files and just expect me to..."

"Wait, what?" He interrupts in disbelief. "You think I stole your number from the files? Katniss, I've had your number since the wedding. I asked Gale for it that night, and he gave it to me. I've been wanting to call you ever since."

Involuntarily, my stomach descends. I don't know why, but the room feels different after that admission.

"Look," Peeta explains, "I'm not asking to be your boyfriend. I'm just asking you to let me take you out for a drink, or maybe some dinner. Nothing fancy or anything, just like, hanging out. It doesn't even have to be a date; but, I'm not gonna lie, I'd really like it if it were..."

I groan at him for two reasons — one: because for once, he's being kind of sweet and rational, and two: I can't think of a single reasonable excuse to say no.

Damn him to hell.

"I'll think about it," I blurt.

"Yeah?" He confirms.

"I'll think about it," I repeat, sternly, emphasizing think.

"Good," he beams. "Just don't take too long."

* * *

"So, let me get this straight...you gave him my phone number because you thought it might be a good idea?"

Before taking another swig of his beer, Gale shrugs his shoulders as though it's the easiest thing he's ever heard and simply says — "yeah."

My eyes trail over to Johanna, and I watch as she tilts her head back and expels a long breath of grey smoke, completely unabashed. Her feet are propped up on the table while her half eaten Checker's burger sits next to the sole of her converse shoe. I half expect her commentary to filter in, but it doesn't.

"Gale?! How is that a good idea?" My voice shrieks. "The guy is like...a pair of jeans and a banana hammock away from being a male stripper."

"Huh? Stripper? I thought he was like...a veterinarian or something," his brows furrow, but he never tears his eyes away from the television screen. His fingers are too busy pounding the buttons on the controller, trying to sabotage my Princess Peach in Mario Kart.

"I don't see what the big deal is, anyway; I thought you liked him. I mean, you two were all over each other at the wedding."

Immediately, I press pause and turn my head, giving him my best 'seriously?' face.

"I was not all over him at the wedding."

Gale rolls his eyes. "Keep telling yourself that," he quips. Because of that, when I hit the resume button, I immediately chuck a shell at his Bowser kart, forcing him to spin out.

"Ugh. What the hell, Catnip?"

"I was not all over him," I insist, my words clipped and concise. Suddenly no longer feeling like playing, I throw the controller down on the couch.

"Well, it doesn't matter. Peeta's a good guy. You should go out with him."

"No."

"What's the matter? Afraid you'll like him?"

"No, that's exactly the problem — I don't like him."

That's when I finally hear a callous laugh from the loveseat, and crane my neck to look back at Johanna.

"Oh, did you have something meaningful to add to the conversation?" I ask.

"Did you?" Johanna says, staring at me.

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that everyone in this room knows you want Blondie's dick in and around your mouth, so you should stop playing innocent."

My eyes go wide. "I do not!"

Gale nearly chokes on a swig of his beer.

"Another word of advice: since Magic Mike has your phone number now, your voicemail probably shouldn't sound like a fourteen year old girl's Myspace video."

My brows twist and I look over at the obnoxious sunglasses keeping her hair pulled back, making sure to give her a grimace before reaching for one of her french fries.

"Oh, please," I remark.

"Look," Johanna explains between taking another long drag of her cigarette, "the whole Joey Lauren Adams thing? It really isn't working for you. Just change it. It'll take a whole two seconds."

I look over to Gale for reassurance.

"Is it that bad?"

He just shrugs, too engrossed in his video games to care.

But the damage has been done, and Johanna's words have already began to resonate. I rummage my brain in a sad attempt to remember what my voicemail message even sounds like. Admittedly, I'm a bit out of touch with technology.

What if it's awful? What if it's awful and he calls instead of text? Suddenly, I find myself running the pad of my thumb over my phone screen.

"You're thinking about this too much. Just change it," she barks.

"It can't be that bad..." I offer after a moment of silence.

"Really?" She shoots a look over at me.

"It's just —"

"Fucking hell," she interrupts, "give me the damn phone. I'll change the thing myself."

I scoff, taking a firm grasp on my phone, my mind still reeling from this sudden turn of events.

"No, I got it. The last thing I need is my voicemail sounding like Gilbert Gottfried reading Fifty Shades of Grey."

"I do not sound like Gilbert Gottfried," she defends.

"Keep smoking those Newports and only time will tell."

"Just worry about your voicemail, Brainless, and I'll worry about me."

I lean back against the couch cushion again, watching Gale play another round of Mario Kart, shoving the rest of Johanna's french fries in his face. She's got me worked up, enough to even make me set up my voicemail to something less...whatever. I try, but I feel like I'm lost in some virtual version of hell. When I start getting irritated by the whole thing, Johanna offers to help, but I respectfully decline. Instead, I succumb to just using an automated response, even if it's boring.

Still better than a fourteen- year-old Joey Lauren Adams, or Gilbert Gottfried, I guess.

* * *

On Wednesday, my cell phone is the quietest it's been in weeks.

It doesn't make a whole lot of sense to me, but when I finally go two days without receiving one of his messages in my inbox, it leaves an evident pang in my chest.

I suppose it wasn't going to last forever.

* * *

I half hope to see him at the gym on my early Sunday afternoon, showing up in those ridiculous shoes and shorts sent from heaven. He doesn't, though. And it's not like it matters, but...

I don't dwell, and just do my normal routine—gym, grocery store, and laundry fill out my day. How exciting.

When I get home around nine and start unloading plastic shopping bags, my phone begins buzzing. The newfound excitement settling in the pit of my stomach makes me feel like a dopey teenager, but I don't care. I pull my phone out of my back pocket wistfully, and immediately find myself disappointed.

"What's up, Gale?" I answer, trying really hard to hide my disappointment.

"Hey, I need a favor."

"What?'

"I need you to meet me at the Cleveland Clinic." His voice isn't frantic, just direct.

"What? Why are you at the hospital?"

"I need a hand here, and Madge isn't answering."

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. I had to bring Peeta here a while ago. Just come and get me. I'll explain later."

"Is Peeta okay?" I ask, genuinely concerned.

"He's fine, Catnip. Call me when you get here."

"Alright. I'll be there soon."

Because it's so late, traffic isn't an issue. In twenty minutes, I'm nearly there, dialing Gale's cell as I circle the parking lot. After another fifteen minutes of repeatedly getting his voicemail, I cough up three bucks to park and head inside.

When I get to the main lobby and explain that I'm there for Peeta Mellark, I'm handed a little sheet of paper which directs me to the emergency area. That's where I find Gale, shoulders hunched and legs extended well beyond normal etiquette. His head is leaned against the wall, and judging by his steady breathing and mouth hung open, he's completely passed out.

I punch him in the arm, and his eyes flicker open, wide.

"Way to answer your phone, jerk. I've been trying to call you for twenty minutes. Thank God I know Peeta's last name."

"Sorry," he grumbles, rubbing sleep from him eyes.

"What's wrong with him anyway?"

"He got tripped up during racquetball, playing with some old man..."

I snort.

"An old man?" I question curiously, unable to hide the delirious wonderment in my voice.

"Yeah. I didn't see it. I just know his ankle was the size of a golf ball and I had to carry his sorry ass to the car and drive him here."

I knit my eyebrows together in confusion. "Wait, so you drove his car here? How is he gonna get home?"

"If you'd shut up and listen, you'd know that's the reason I called you, Catnip. I need to take his car back to his place, and for you to take me home."

"Lovely. And how long are we thinking this adventure is going to take? Because we've got work tomorrow."

"Yeah, I wish I could tell you," he says in his annoyed tone. "I've been here for like, two hours already."

I roll my eyes. "I guess it's a good thing we've got MTV," I say, pointing to the screen above us currently rolling an episode of Jersey Shore.

We sit quietly, and I flip through Good Housekeeping while Gale reads some muscle car magazine. I scan over some article about making holiday pies; what for — I have no fucking idea. It's not like I plan on playing Martha Stewart anytime soon, but it does at least help kill some time.

An hour and a half later, Peeta finally comes through the door, being pushed around in a wheelchair with a brace over his ankle. His shoe on his good foot is half tied while the other rests in his lap. I can't help laugh at how pitiful he looks with his crooked t-shirt and heavy eyes. Gale and I exchange glances before heading towards him carefully.

"Hey dude," Gale offers lightly. "How's the ankle?"

"Fractured," he mumbles bitterly. "They gave me some crutches and charged me eight hundred bucks to tell me that in two weeks, I'll be good as new."

"Yeah, but they gave you drugs, right?" Gale teases. Being obstinate, Peeta doesn't laugh.

The nurse tries to wheel him around, and he fights her, declaring he can walk just fine. I watch as he places his palms on the chair and tries to stand to his feet, but immediately begins to stagger. Christ, he's a jackass. I wind up taking a step behind him and placing a firm grasp beneath his armpits, tugging him back in the chair.

"Come on, Hobbles. Stop being a stubborn jerk." He may not smile, but I can see a light twinkle in his eye.

The release papers require a few more moments of waiting. After that, I wheel Peeta into the parking lot, where we decide that Gale is better off driving his Mustang home. It seems logical enough; we figure it will probably be easier to get him in and out of my Taurus — that is, until I'm trying to help him into the passenger seat and he's being a big ass baby.

"Peeta, just lean against me. I'm not gonna let you fall," I reason.

"But —" He keeps trying to lean his weight against the door, and every time he does it, he nearly falls over.

"You're making this way more difficult than it needs to be." Losing my patience, I grab a hold of his wrist and link his arm around my neck, forcing the weight of his hip on me. Finally, he succumbs, and I can feel the difference with the shift of his limbs heavy against mine. An earthy smell of sweat and skin invades my senses, along with a faint, clean fragrance that I assume is from his shampoo. I allow myself to inhale deeply, yet try to ignore the flurries in my stomach.

"Thanks," he finally grumbles when his back hits the seat safely.

With a fuckton of effort, we're finally settled and driving, and it's almost midnight.

Once we're in motion, I turn on the radio and let my iPod shuffle on a low volume, just to help keep me alert. Peeta shifts restlessly, his hands in his lap, but not nervous—just uncharacteristically quiet as his eyes are keeping out the window. I can't tell if it's correlated with the injury and his hurt pride, or because he's pissed off at me. I'm really hoping for the former.

Finally, I break the silence. "So, an old man tripped you, huh?"

He sighs inwardly before mumbling "Yeah, I guess." His head turns and his gaze flickers out the window again.

"Well, that wasn't very nice of him," I joke.

"Yeah." His eyes never meet mine once.

I try again, grasping at straws. "Maybe we should get you a Life Alert. You know, just in case you decide to duke it out again."

Silence.

"Hrmph," I offer in response to his lack of reply, focusing on the road again. Talking's out of the question, clearly.

Rather than try to make any further conversation, I turn up the music just a little bit more, letting it fill the empty spaces. When a familiar track comes on — a favorite — I hum along. That's when I notice his fingers start drumming his knees, and I let a small smile creep across my face.

_I can be anything_

_That you want me to be_

_A holy cross_

_Some sympathy_

It's not a conventional song, and I wouldn't expect him to know it, but it's clear he does when his lips silently move in tandem with the lyrics.

_Hold your head high_

_Don't look down_

_I'm by your side_

He just...keeps on surprising me.

"What exit am I getting off on?" I ask. He answers quickly and offers nothing more.

_I won't back down_

_You wanted a hero tonight_

_Well I'm not made of steel_

He's trying to hide it, but I can see him out of the corner of my eye, with his good foot tapping against the floor mat. He's being so unreasonable for no apparent reason, and yet, it's kind of endearing. My heart beat thrums soundly, and it's too much for me when the flurries begin again; because he's being cute without even trying to be, and as much as I want to continue disliking him, I can feel my resolve weakening. It's scary, so fucking scary; and it's...

"You can turn here," he directs me, knocking me out of my trance.

When I'm pulling into his driveway for the second time, we're greeted by an impatiently waiting Gale sitting on the porch.

"Come on, Peet. We'll get you inside," he says, opening the passenger side door.

It's actually quite easy with the both of us there to burden his weight, and once inside, Gale and I force Peeta down into a big brown recliner and elevate his feet. I try not to gawk at his place, knowing it's probably kind of rude, but still find myself aware of all things Peeta: the massive T.V screen, the messy shelf with stacks of books, the fleece blanket that's strewn about the back of his couch.

I head over to the kitchen and grab a bottle of water out of the fridge, setting it on the table next to him. "Need anything else?" I ask in a way that lets him know he's on his own from this point forward. He shakes his head, still not looking at me.

Well then.

"Alright, Peet, we're taking off. Just call if you need anything, okay?" Gale calls out.

"Alright. Thanks," he answers in half mumbles, his eyes already fluttering shut. I linger a little bit longer than my pride would like me to, and he still says nothing.

Anger surges within me, because I can't figure out why he's treating me like this.

Whatever.

I just make sure the door is locked behind me.

* * *

It's a quarter past one when I'm pulling back my blankets and finally settling into bed. The sheets are cool against the warm air, and I know the minute I lay my head against the pillow, I'm gonna fade fast. But before I plug my phone in to charge, I open my text messages box one last time, just to see if he sent anything. I sigh when it's empty.

I can't believe it didn't hit me before, but now it's so obvious.

He's mad I haven't text him back, and now he's making me painfully aware of it.

I bite down on my bottom lip, my fingers feeling a burning sensation to move against the keypad. I know what it means if I send a message. I also know that he'll know what it means.

I stop thinking about it and just type out the lyrics that he was silently wording earlier.

_I'm not made of steel_

_But your secret's safe with me_

Then, I hit send.


End file.
